“You’re just distracting him,” Jasimir said, flat. “And I’m trying to help. Maybe it seems like he’s serious now, but he’s never been with someone for more than a moon.”

“Keep your own damn business,” Fie snapped. “I’m not here to warm my bed. I’m busy keeping you both alive.”

“Why?” She’d set Jasimir off good and true this time. “You’re not bound to anything. You could go any time, collect your kin, and leave us be. But you’re not doing this for the oath anymore, are you?”

Fie’s fist knotted in the stolen fur. Her voice shook. “If I didn’t care about the oath, cousin, I’d have gladly handed you to Tatterhelm myself.”

“Your friend Hangdog certainly seemed to care about keeping the—”

“Enough.” Tavin emerged from the shadows behind them, startling Fie and the prince both. “You should be ashamed of that oath, Jas. It means both our castes are failing to protect our own people.”

Prince Jasimir’s mouth opened and closed. He looked as mortified as Fie felt.

She yanked a change of clothes and the bag of soap-shells free from her pack. “I’ll wash up,” she mumbled, tottering to her feet. Tavin reached to steady her, and she didn’t know if she wanted to veer away or stumble to him.

She settled for neither, slipping past and into the dim passage, head a-whirl. Sure enough, the air thickened with steam the farther she went, soon yawning into a broad, clear pool. Waning daylight curled in the air, streaming from a gap far above.

Fie took a moment to try her three Sparrow teeth. They only lasted a breath, just long enough to show wisps of Vulture tracking spells sloughing off. They must have latched on the moment she fell.

She made a Vulture tooth last longer, searching for Tatterhelm’s supply master with one hand on a belt she’d taken from the dead skinwitches. The trail stretched far beyond the cave, distant enough to buy them at least a night.

The thought of the oath perched on her shoulder while she stripped out of her clothes and brought them with her to wash in the stinging-hot water, cracking a handful of soap-shells with relish.

What sort of Crow turned her back on the roads the Covenant bound her to walk? What sort of Crow practiced at swords? What Crow would cross a skinwitch, threaten a prince, and think folly over a bastard Hawk?

A traitor like Hangdog, part of her said.

A chief like Pa, another pushed back.

And a third whispered, One too hungry to remember fear.

She hadn’t any answer by the time she climbed out of the pool, scrubbed near-sore and happier for it. She didn’t know if she’d have an answer before she reached the Marovar, or even after.